


Privileges of Rank

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, somewhat dubcon, two people making the best of a bad situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-01 06:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: In a militaristic, dystopian society, Lieutenant Sherlock Holmes has been strongly urged (read: ordered) to partake of the dubious delights of an officer's only pleasure house. The only problem is, he's never done anything like this before. Will newly recruited Comfort Girl Molly Hooper be the one to help him, or will his deductions drive her away?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 40
Kudos: 203





	1. Get In, Get Out, Get Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quarto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarto/gifts).

> This fic grew out of a nasty anon hate I received on tumblr, in which the person just wrote "RIP Molly Whore Hooper" over and over. I chose to take it as a challenge and a prompt. One of my suggestions was "Molly is a Comfort Girl in a sort of dystopian UK" and I even wrote a bit of "Officer and a Gentleman'-esque dialogue. Then Quarto (theemptyquarto on tumblr) was inspired to write a small scene between John and Sherlock which in turn inspired me to write this two-parter. The dialogue at the beginning is from her story, which you can read by following this link:
> 
> https://theemptyquarto.tumblr.com/post/182982399724/theemptyquarto-mizjoely-theemptyquarto

_Sherlock hesitated._

"_I'm not- I'm not quite sure-. I don't know quite what to do?"_

_He sounded hapless, even to himself, but John as always was oblivious to the undertexture. The older man sighed._

"_It's… it's normally a game, right? The best one to play… when it works. But it's not a game for someone who can't say no, so I guess you opt for kindness and efficiency. She'll be there to do her job, and it's a hard one. So get in, get out, get gone."_

**ooooOoooo**

"_So get in, get out, get gone."_

Sherlock held back a snort. Easy for Major John Watson to say, he thought sourly. He wasn't the one being practically ordered to have sex with some pathetic 'Comfort Girl'. At least the ones at this particular bordello were certified clean, disease-free, and even (if their claims could be taken at face-value, which Sherlock highly doubted) included volunteers as well as the usual conscripts.

_The privileges of rank,_ he sneered silently to himself, not for the first time hating the fact that his family name mattered more in military - and political - circles than his actual capabilities. Yes, it had taken a few years for him to be extended this 'privilege' due to his less-than-pristine service record, but eventually it had been bound to happen.

No Holmes would ever find themselves excluded from the halls of power, whether they wanted to stride those halls or not. Certainly not if his brother Mycroft had anything to say about it. For him, it was all about King and Country and family honour.

Sometimes it made him so sick he thought it might be better to be branded a quisling and a traitor, rather than continue to live the life forced on him: the military career, the eventual government position alongside or (loathsome thought) working directly _under _his brother in the unnamed bureau founded by their Uncle Rudy.

He slammed down the whisky he'd ordered at the bar, deposited the glass onto the well varnished wood surface, and had turned and taken a step towards the door when a soft voice stopped him in his tracks. "Looks like you're about as excited to be here as I am."

He raised an eyebrow as he turned to face the woman who'd spoken with such frankness. Such _treasonable _frankness.

Well. Colour him intrigued - and suspicious. "Those are words that could land you in far less salubrious circumstances in which you currently find yourself, Miss…?" He drew the last word out inquiringly.

She had the brains to look abashed, a red flush colouring her cheeks as she glanced around the posh, overdone room in which they currently found themselves. With the bartender at the other end serving more whisky to a few other officers, only one of whom Sherlock knew by name, there was no one near enough to overhear "Yes, well, I, I just meant that - oh, my name's Molly! Wait, no that's not, that's not what I…"

Uncharacteristically he took pity on her. "Yes, Molly, that is what I was asking, for your name, thank you. You can call me Sherlock." He balked at the idea of forcing this flustered young woman to call him 'Lieutenant Holmes', even though he knew it was best to remain as impersonal as possible in such situations.

And so he might have done, had he been able to turn off the part of his brain that was constantly analyzing the world - and people - around him. Even without that, simple observation told him that she was younger than him by a good two years, making her 22 to his 24; that she had a classic 'English Rose' complexion (he _hated _that he knew what that meant); that her chestnut hair was nearly waist-length when not done in its current, elaborate style so utterly unsuited to the shape of her face, that the black dress she wore…

He returned his gaze to her face, the deductions pouring out of him. "You're new," he said, "what's more, you're a volunteer rather than a conscript, paying off a family debt incurred by your, hmm, father, I'd say." His eyes flicked over her from head to toe and back again while she gaped at him. "This is your first night, a sort of a try-out, and you're terrified you won't be up to _Chez Adler's_ standards and will be sent down to a less high-end establishment for enlisted men."

"How, how did you guess all that?" she stammered out, her brown eyes wide with a combination of what he tentatively classified as amazement and alarm.

"I don't guess," he sneered, "I _deduce_."

"Fine," she snapped back, once again demonstrating the spirit that she'd shown with her initial words to him. "How did you _deduce _all that, then?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, lip curling in a smile as he began speaking. "I can tell you're new because you're obviously nervous, ill-at-ease, and it's because of that that I know you're a volunteer. Most Comfort Girls are conscripted in their early teens, especially in establishments catering to officers, in order to ensure they're properly trained in both physical pleasure and in what might be termed the 'social graces'. A conscript," he added pointedly, "would never open a conversation with a man in as awkward a manner as you just did. She would have had any hint of sedition or treason 'trained' out of her." He curled his lip to show just what he thought of such 'training' - i.e., brainwashing - and continued to study the woman staring owl-eyed at him.

"Um," was all she managed before he rushed on, caught up in the euphoria of being able to deduce without having to watch his words. "Aside from that that, conscripts are selected purely for their looks. You're pretty enough, but hardly up to the same standards as the rest of them." He waved a dismissive hand at the room at large. "In addition, they're professionally done up, hair and makeup, with obvious augments to certain parts of their bodies." He raised both hands and curved them in a manner meant to display exactly which parts he was referring to. "You've done your hair and makeup yourself, and your body is as nature created it, rather than a product of artifice like the rest."

"So I'm awkward, not as pretty as the other girls, and not as well built as they are; anything else you've deduced?" Molly asked through gritted teeth.

"You're wearing a dress you purchased on your own," he replied, warming to his subject, "rather than one provided by the House, as the other women are. It fits you just fine, but it's of inferior quality and was clearly purchased second-hand. Also none of the other women are wearing black - they're all in bright colours meant to catch a man's attention. Their movements are practiced, as are their smiles - your movements are as awkward as your speech, and you're obviously uncomfortable, which further points to you being a volunteer rather than a conscript. And," he finished with a flourish, "you're a good deal smaller -" He held a hand just below his chin to make sure she understood that he meant 'petite' rather than 'skinny' - "than the others. Clearly this House has a type, and you're not it."

Her cheeks had become pinker and pinker as he spoke, and the self-conscious way she crossed her arms across her chest and nibbled on the corner of her lower lip showed him quite clearly that she'd chosen her dress - low cut, black with silver trim - and lipstick (too bright a red for her skin tone) to compensate for the size of her breasts and lips.

He almost blurted that last deduction out loud, but some instinct he hadn't known he possessed warned him to keep his mouth shut for once.

Oh, not instinct; that was definitely John Watson's voice he was hearing in his head. _A bit not good, Sherlock._

Still, he couldn't help himself; he had to at least finish his deductions now that he'd started them, even if it meant he'd likely have to allow one of the other women to take him to her rooms. Which would be a shame, he thought fleetingly, but didn't allow himself to wonder _why _he felt that way.

"You came to this particular establishment, knowing that its reputation for recruiting volunteers is part of its attraction to the clientele - the men who come here want to believe that the women providing their 'services' are doing so because they _want _to rather than because they _have _to. But it's all the same in the end, isn't it?" He stepped closer to her, leaning down so they were face to face. "You volunteered because you were desperate. Which is also why you tried to attract my attention with a clumsy attempt at humor that any other officer would have mistaken for sedition."

She paled at those words but lifted her chin and continued to meet his eyes. "Are, are you planning to report me, then?"

He gave an impatient shake of his head. "No, don't be ridiculous. It would be a waste of time for both of us."

"Then if you'll excuse me I'll be g - wait, what do you mean, a waste of time for both of us?" she interrupted herself to ask, confusion clear in her eyes.

"Because, Molly, if we're to be forced into doing...this…" he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "then why not do it together? I'll leave here looking extremely satisfied, singing your praises to all and sundry so Miss Adler will be happy; you'll tell anyone who bothers to ask that I performed up to snuff, and then we can both go on with our lives."

Instead of easing her confusion, his words apparently only made it worse. She stepped back, brow furrowed as she said, her voice low and urgent, "It sounds like, like you're saying we should just...pretend." She shot a nervous look around the room, her hands twisting together and teeth once again worrying at her lower lip.

As if anyone in this plush, over-decorated hell-hole was remotely interested in their conversation. Still, he conceded, there was always the chance of being overheard or even recorded, even if this establishment was supposedly certified as 'bug' free as well as bug free. A place for officers to take their ease, to relieve the pressures of the military life, blah blah blah.

Although that hadn't at all been what he meant, he found himself considering the possiblity of doing just that: pretend to have sex, give glowing reports of one another's performances and continue on their merry ways. With luck he wouldn't be issued another thinly disguised order to frequent this establishment again, and Molly would…

His thoughts stuttered to a halt at that point. No If they faked it, then that would leave him unscathed but Molly...Molly would soldier on, he tried to counsel himself. She volunteered. No one is forcing her to do this. So what if her first experience is with some nasty piece of work like Captain Wilkes - whom Sherlock had just seen swaggering through the main entrance like he owned the place - or someone even worse, who would use her callously and not care if damage were done?

"No," he said, more forcefully than he meant to, causing Molly to start back a bit. "No," he repeated more softly, reaching out to lay a hesitant hand on her arm. "I just meant...no matter how it goes, we both say it went well." He was thinking more of his own lack of experience than of any perceived deficiencies on her part, but wasn't quite ready to admit any such thing just yet. "I just mean, since we both have to be here, why not make the best of it? With each other?"

He fumbled to a stop, uncertain how his words would be taken, and was relieved to see her expression soften into something less nervous and more...welcoming?

"All right then...Sherlock." She said his name hesitantly, even as she squared her shoulders. "Shall we just...get it over with?"

He extended an arm. "After you, Molly." And allowed her to escort him to whatever dreary little closet had been granted to her to entertain her 'clients' in.


	2. The Best Game To Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid couple Do The Do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of my fic inspired by a nasty anon hate I received on tumblr and Quarto's excellent scene between John and Sherlock (link at beginning of story). Enjoy the smexy times!

As he'd deduced, her room was small, holding only a bed (just large enough to hold two people as long as they were _very _friendly with one another, which of course was entirely the point), a dressing table, a chair and a tall, narrow wardrobe. None of the items were of inferior quality, but they had certainly seen better days.

He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, knees as primly together as any maiden aunt, hands folded loosely on his lap, and watched as she awkwardly shimmied out of her shabby black dress.

_"So get in, get out, get gone."_

John's advice sounded through his mind, and he realized with a mental start that Molly wasn't the only one who needed to be naked in this situation. Hesitantly he began undoing the clasps on his uniform jacket, shrugging out of it and hanging it neatly on the bedpost before bending down to remove his boots.

He looked at her through his lashes, eyes widening at the sight of her bare backside as she finished removing her undergarments. She remained turned away from him as she placed them atop her neatly folded dress, which she'd set on the chair. He took a moment to study the soft curves of her body before hurrying to complete the task of undressing.

_At least,_ he mused as he noted the slight tenting of his trousers, _I know for sure that I'll be capable of performing as expected._

Not that that had been a concern, he assured himself as he pulled his shirt over his head and hung it over his uniform jacket. No, if there was one thing a Holmes could always manage, it was to perform their duty under the most trying of circumstances.

Although, to his surprise and discomfort as he once again looked at Molly's naked form, these circumstances were turning out to be anything _but _trying.

He analysed his body's unexpectedly eager reaction to her as if studying enemy troop movements: coolly, with precise logic, his mind moving rapid-fire through the possibilities. _She's pretty and has a decent figure, but I've seen pretty women with decent figures before, so that can't be it. And she's not the first naked woman I've seen, no, that's hard to avoid with what passes for 'entertainment' at the Officer's Club and on the official State Television channels. Hmm, I've been told I have control issues, is it possible that some part of me actually _likes _the fact that she's been forced into this life, that she has no choice but to do this for me?_

He rejected that possibility easily, without a second thought. No, he wasn't the type of man who enjoyed having anyone under his thumb; that was more his brother's attitude and even Mycroft wasn't the sort to take advantage of a woman based on his position. Then again, he had his personal aide-de-camp, what was her name? Anthea, Andrea, whatever. His own personal geisha who happened to be in love with him, oddly enough. The woman was mad, obviously, but it made no difference to him and since when did he allow his mind to wander like this?

"Um, Sherlock? Are you- are you...all right?"

He blinked, staring up and seeing that Molly had moved to kneel in front of him, one hand resting tentatively on his knee. There was concern in her warm brown eyes, and he felt a sudden desire to kiss her upturned lips, to take her in his arms and feel her body against his - as soon as he'd removed his trousers, of course.

"Take down your hair," he said hoarsely, not entirely sure why he wanted her to do so. "Please," he remembered to add as she continued to stare up at him.

Without speaking or lowering her gaze, she reached up and began pulling out the hairpins holding the cinnamon tresses in place. Her hair fell nearly straight to her waist; he watched as she combed her fingers through it to undo the slight tangles that had gathered there in the process.

He reached out, taking one slender wrist between his fingers, stilling the motion and feeling her pulse. Elevated, much as his own was. Her breath was coming faster, a sure sign that her outward calm was barely skin deep. Again, much like his own. He took her chin in his other hand, let his fingers glide across the smooth skin, his thumb brushing her lower lip, and tugged slightly with the other hand until she realized his intent and rose obediently to her feet.

He stood as well, clad only in his trousers, still stroking her face, but unsure what to do next. He'd sublimated his sexual urges long ago, when he'd observed how dangerous it could be to let one's body override one's brain, opting instead to focus on honing his deductive skills and his military career, such as it was. However useful he'd found such sublimation in the past, it left him somewhat at a loss under the current circumstances.

"Can I - can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice gone husky without his willing it to. Interesting. "Would that be all right? I don't...I've never…"

She answered him by surging up onto her toes, wrapping her free arm around his neck and covering his mouth with her own.

His first kiss - at least, the first one he actually willingly participated in. Molly might be a novice as a Comfort Girl, but she was certainly no novice when it came to kissing. Her lips were warm and inviting beneath his, and he let out a small gasp when he felt her tongue gliding softly along the seam of his lips, requesting entry he hesitantly allowed by opening his mouth just the slightest bit.

He was dimly aware that he'd put his arms around her, that one was wrapped securely around her waist and the other lay across her shoulders. As they continued to kiss, he found himself cataloging every new sensation: the way her curtain of unbound hair felt, soft and silky against his skin; the slight taste of cherry on lips and tongue, from whatever she'd been drinking before approaching him; the way her petite form molded so perfectly against his; the feel of her breasts against his chest...and most of all the way his body reacted so eagerly to each and every stimulus.

He moaned eagerly when she slid the fingers of one hand up his neck to card softly through his curls, and moaned even louder when her other hand trailed softly down his chest to dip below the waistline of his trousers and brush ever so slightly against his straining erection.

He willingly fell back onto the bed when she pushed him down, watching through heavy lidded eyes as she unfastened his trousers, lifting his hips as she pulled them down and off his legs, along with his regulation grey underpants. Hers, he recalled, had been black to match the dress she'd so casually discarded. "You've had a lover before," he blurted out as she knelt over him.

She gave him a startled look, then let out an awkward little giggle he found rather adorable as she sat astride his thighs. "Um, yeah. A couple, when I was still at Uni."

"Which you were forced to leave due to your father's illness," he concluded, reaching up to stroke his fingers along her thighs. He itched to touch her more intimately, but wasn't quite sure where to begin. Especially not while they were in mid-conversation. It seemed vaguely rude to break things off just because he was curious to see how her breast would feel in his mouth, or if her pubic hair was as wiry as his own.

Fortunately Molly seemed to sense his uncertainty; with a small laugh, she shook her head and leaned down to kiss him again. It seemed more natural at that point to cup her breasts in his hands, to knead them curiously and test how quickly her nipples hardened beneath his touch.

"So, when you say you've never…" she murmured, allowing the sentence to trail off suggestively.

"I've never had sex," he responded, keeping his hands firmly wrapped around her breasts. No point in exaggerating skills he clearly didn't yet possess. "In any form." He shifted his hips, feeling his erection bobbing up against the smooth curves of her arse, and swallowed. Hard. "Except for self-gratification, of course."

She let out a low laugh. "Of course," she echoed. "So I guess that means you won't be disappointed if I'm not as well trained as the other Comfort Girls? Which you've already deduced I'm not?"

Where, he wondered distractedly, was all this self-confidence coming from? She'd wavered between awkward friendliess, defensiveness, nerves and the occasional hints of steel in the public areas of the brothel, but here...it was almost like being with a different woman. _If she's like this with all her future clients, she'll have no problem earning a permanent place here,_ he found himself thinking.

The thought of her with other men, trapped in this life, made his gut clench with some unknown emotion he refused to identify. In an effort to distract himself, to at least temporarily shut down his endlessly whirling thoughts, he kissed her again, moving his hands from her breasts, trailing them down her back and cupping the soft globes of her arse.

She giggled and bent her head to the side, sweeping her hair over one shoulder as she placed a series of delicate kisses along the side of his neck and collarbone. He shivered and clutched her closer, almost dizzy with arousal like he'd never felt before. His skin was pebbled with goosebumps and blazing with feverish heat at the same time, a combination he'd never experienced and would have to remember to analyze at some point in the future.

When his mind was working properly again. Right now all he could do was _feel_, a novel sensation to say the least. Feel her mouth on his flesh. Feel the soft brush of her hair against his arm and the side of his body. Feel her legs and feet where they rested against his thighs, her toes tickling against the backs of his knees. Feel her hands against his chest, rubbing soft circles over his nipples until they tightened almost painfully taut - and yet it was a pain he was happy to endure. Another sensation to analyze in future, another physical reaction to ponder; how could he find something that should be unpleasant...not?

While he'd been lost in the sensations she was wringing from him - quite expertly, in his opinion, never mind how much training she had or hadn't received - she'd been slowly moving downward, until suddenly his hands were on her shoulders instead of her arse and her mouth was…

"Oh God!" The words slipped from his lips as a strangled whisper as he felt her lips engulf the tip of his cock. Without conscious thought his hands wound themselves into her hair, close to her scalp, and he had to fight the urge to simultaneously hold her head down and thrust upwards into her mouth. It was hot and wet and like nothing he'd ever experienced; even a lubricated hand and vivid imagination was nothing compared to the feel of Molly's mouth, her lips and tongue and the soft graze of her teeth, against his straining cock.

The betraying tightness of his balls warned him, and in spite of the haze of pleasure in which he was currently floating, he managed to retain enough presence of mind to tug Molly's head up and away so her mouth was no longer touching his body. "Give me a moment," he begged (_asked, demanded, _anything _but begged!_) her.

She obligingly sat up, shrugging her hair over her shoulder and giving him a smile that was just a bit too self-conscious to be considered smug. "Good?" she asked.

"Very good," he agreed, concentrating on his breathing, on the latest troop movements, on his _brother's bloody antique waistcoat collection_...on anything that would keep him from embarrassing himself, at least not yet. He suspected he wouldn't be able to hold out for long, but since he'd decided to surrender his virginity, he at least wanted the full experience of being inside a woman's body - this woman's body in particular. He was somewhat perplexed to realize he didn't _want _it to be anyone else; that, given the option, he'd choose Molly over any other woman offered to him, up to and including the famed proprietress herself, Madame Irene.

While he pondered this unexpected - and, frankly, unwelcome - sign of sentiment, Molly had risen from the bed and procured a small, foil-wrapped package which she was now tearing open. Ah, of course, a prophylactic; the officer's Houses had to be scrupulous about such things, and even though he was Molly's first client (although not her last, no, best not to think on that), rules were rules.

She wrestled a bit with the condom, showing her lack of recent experience, but he left her to it, reasoning she would need to improve her skills if she was to retain her place here. That was another uncomfortable thought, quickly shoved away as her fingers found confidence and suddenly he was sheathed in latex.

He had only a moment to get used to the feeling before Molly was kneeling over him. "Um, do you want to, you know, do it this way?" She gestured at where he lay splayed out on her bed. "Or would you rather I was the one lying down? Or, ah, something else?"

She was blushing but that was all right because so was he. "I think, like this is good," he said, somehow managing not to sound like a complete idiot no matter how hot his cheeks felt. Then again, he'd been flushing with heat throughout this entire experience, so perhaps she wouldn't notice?

If she did, she didn't say anything, just nodded and started to clamber over him. He raised a hand, catching her by the wrist. She gave him an inquiring look, to which he said, "Before we get to...this," he gestured vaguely toward their nearly-touching groins, "would it be all right if I, ah, returned the favour?"

Her brow knit in confusion, but quickly cleared. The blush on her cheeks deepened and spread down to her chest. "You don't have to," she rushed to assure him. "I mean, it's not...required or anything. Not that anything is required, of course, not by you, but that's, um, it would be lovely of course but you don't have to."

Ah, there was the awkward young woman he'd first met; he felt his own confidence reasserting itself at this reminder that this situation was as new to her as it was to him. "Yes," he said, surprised to realize how much he meant it. "I want to. So if you'll just…" He made a 'come here' gesture with both hands, and waited with a great deal of anticipation as she crawled up and settled with her knees on either side of his head. His hands moved instinctively to hold her in place and he felt the tension in her body as she slowly lowered herself so that her groin (_her pussy, some inner voice corrected him_) was a scant inch above his mouth.

He put out his tongue and gave a tentative lick, pleased and surprised to find the taste of her not entirely unpleasant. Musky, a bit sour, but it made his mouth water and he found himself wanting more. He hauled her closer, eliciting a started squeak from her lips, then set to work exploring, tasting, savoring; using lips and tongue to lick and suckle and tease her from the inside out.

He came across her clitoris almost (_but not quite, being rather well versed in human anatomy, after all_) accidentally, and was pleased to discover just how sensitive she was in that particular spot - that is, if her moans and squeals could be taken at face value. Judging by the gush of moisture against his mouth as her body tensed and her moans became short, sharp cries as she rutted against his face, not to mention the definite change in the taste of her, she wasn't faking her pleasure.

She pulled up and away from him after a moment, and he was further pleased to see the sheen of sweat on her torso, the glazed expression in her eyes, and the red flush that had spread down over her breasts and shoulders. "Good?" he asked as she lifted herself somewhat shakily and lay down beside him.

"A lot better than good," she assured him. She was breathing hard, and he impulsively laid a hand over her chest, in order to feel the thundering of her heart. Would his own beat as hard, he wondered, once she'd pulled an orgasm out of him?

Only one way to find out. He gave her a few minutes to recover, reaching down to stroke himself back to full hardness, groaning as he felt her hand join his. He let her take over, nodding when she asked if he was ready, and watched as she settled herself back on her knees, sort of hovering over his erection. She lowered herself slowly, holding him gently in one hand, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as he felt her surrounding him, encasing him in a wet heat that was even more sinfully delicious than the feel of her mouth on him had been.

He reached out blindly, his hands landing on her hips almost by chance, and the urge to move, to thrust up into her, was irresistible. She seemed to be leaning forward; her hands landed on his chest, her palms resting directly over his nipples and he groaned as that simple contact seemed to go directly to his groin. He thrust up; she met his thrust with one of her own, and after a few false starts they fell into a fast, steady rhythm that had him gasping and panting in sheer, unadulterated pleasure.

As anticipated, he didn't last long; within minutes he was calling out Molly's name, his grip on her hips tightening, his movements stuttering to a halt as he gave a final, hard upward thrust as his cock spasmed and pulsed, the hot semen spurting within the confines of the prophylactic.

She rested atop him while he rode out the spasms, then eased herself off him, watching as he panted and blinked at the stark white ceiling above them.

"Good?" she asked when he'd recovered enough to once again meet her gaze.

Her lips were crooked in a little grin that told her she already knew the answer, but he nodded anyway. "A lot better than good." He lifted her hand, dropped a soft kiss on her knuckles. "Thank you."

She gave an awkward little half-shrug. "Just doing my job," she said, then bit her lip and shook her head. "Sorry, didn't mean to kill the moment. I guess my sense of humour still needs some work."

"It's all good," he assured her. Not sure if it was the right thing to do or not - and not actually caring - he pulled her into his arms so that her head nestled on his chest.

They lay together in silence for several minutes, Sherlock feeling more sated and rested than he had in years, but he knew it couldn't last. Molly's time, alas, was not her own.

There it was, that clenching, roiling feeling in his gut at the thought of her having to get up, redress herself, and head back to the main room and await her next 'client'.

No. Not tonight. He reached over, startling an 'oof' out of her as his chest brushed against her nose, and pulled his personal communications device out of his uniform pocket. Leaning back against the wooden headboard, he manhandled Molly back into position and punched in the code he'd sworn only to use in case of emergency.

While Molly stared at him in puzzlement, he held the mobile up to his ear and waited for the response. "Yes?" was all the speaker said, but he read the curiosity, irritation and calculation in the other man's voice.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock said, "Mycroft? I need a favor…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _My readers: What? That's it? Me: For now *evil chuckle*_


End file.
